ld be the dramatic and not the poetic face. It would
shriek of man, wake the echoes with the tale of man, slaughter all.
quietude. But a girl's face has no story of poisonous intrusion. She
indeed may be cast in the terrors of Nature, and yet be sweet with
Nature, beautiful because she is purely of Nature. Woodseer did his best
to present his view irresistibly. Perhaps he was not clear; it was a
piece of skiamachy, difficult to render clear to the defeated.

Lord Fleetwood had nothing to say but 'Gorgon! a girl a Gorgon!' and it
struck Woodseer as intensely unreasonable, considering that he had
seen the girl whom, in his effort to portray her, he had likened to
a beautiful Gorgon. He recounted the scene of the meeting with her,
pictured it in effective colours, but his companion gave no response,
nor a nod. They ceased to converse, and when the young lord's hired
carriage drew up on the road, Woodseer required persuasion to accompany
him. They were both in their different stations young tyrants of the
world, ready to fight the world and one another for not having their
immediate view of it such as they wanted it. They agreed, however, not
to sleep in the city. Beds were to be had near the top of a mountain
on the other side of the Salza, their driver informed them, and vowing
themselves to that particular height, in a mutual disgust of the city,
they waxed friendlier, with a reserve.

Woodseer soon had experience that he was receiving exceptional treatment
from Lord Fleetwood, whose manservant was on the steps of the hotel in
Salzburg on the lookout for his master.

'Sir Meeson has been getting impatient, my lord,' said the man.

Sir Meeson Corby appeared; Lord Fleetwood cut him short: 'You 're in a
hurry; go at once, don't wait for me; I join you in Baden.--Do me the
favour to eat with me,' he turned to Woodseer. 'And here, Corby! tell
the countess I have a friend to bear me company, and there is to be an
extra bedroom secured at her hotel. That swinery of a place she insists
on visiting is usually crammed. With you there,' he turned to Woodseer,
'I might find it agreeable.--You can take my man, Corby; I shall not
want the fellow.'

'Positively, my dear Fleetwood, you know,' Sir Meeson expostulated, 'I
am under orders; I don't see how--I really can't go on without you.'

'Please yourself. This gentleman is my friend, Mr. Woodseer.'

Sir Meeson Corby was a plump little beau of forty, at war with his fat
and accou